Christmas and other risky ventures
by Jules Ink
Summary: In Star City, the most wonderful time of the year brought the great tree lightning in Central Park, the Community Caroling on Nelson Plaza, Santa's Fun Day for unprivileged children, and Oliver Queen's annual near-death experience. [Set in season five, but ignores canon's winter finale]
1. Meet Oliver Queen, human disaster

I know my last author's note gave you hope I'd be gone longer than this, but I missed writing. [And you, of course. I missed you!] So, this is me, writing against writer's block and making my own wish of a Christmas story come true. Just so you know: I started this fic after episode six of season five aired. So, spoilers for everything that happened until then. It goes AU after that; the first chapter should explain all the changes I've made.

Luckily, **Albiona** agreed to hop on board once more, guiding me while I stumble through the tenses. Albi, I'm grateful you're with me, even though Arrow is very… _ARG_... at the moment. That's true friendship. 3

I hope you'll enjoy this. Love, Jules

 _[Disclaimer: I do know own Arrow or any of its characters. I just borrow them to play with. No copyright infringement intended. This fic will only be posted on Ao3 and my Tumblr.]_

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 **One (meet Oliver Queen, human disaster)**

In Star City, the most wonderful time of the year brought the great tree lightning in Central Park, the Community Caroling on Nelson Plaza, Santa's Fun Day for unprivileged children, and Oliver Queen's annual near-death experience. The season to be jolly unerringly marked a low point in his year, leaving his world (and mostly him) in pieces. Since he returned to Star City four Christmases ago, Oliver nearly died three times and the love of his life had almost been killed once. So much for falalalala.

So, considering his track record, going after a meta alone on Christmas Eve probably wasn't the smartest idea.

But Oliver wouldn't be Oliver (or the Green Arrow) if that stopped him. He knew he was being reckless, but he also knew one thing: he'd rather risk his life making the city safer than continue sitting in the Bunker by himself, dwelling on how badly he had messed up in 2016, a year he couldn't wait to be done with.

When the alarm sounded from Felicity's computer, informing him that Simon Bellamy had entered Star City's borders, Oliver didn't hesitate long before suiting up and taking his bike to Starlight Motel in the North District (located in the east of Star City, because people christening things around here had a special kind of humor). He had only given himself enough time to scan the information provided by Cisco for Felicity's search algorithm.

Bellamy—Oliver couldn't bring himself to remember the stupid codename Cisco had made up—had the ability to jump through time. He could go back and forth exactly ten days at a time. The explanation how and why Team Flash had figured that out was rather lengthy and contained words Oliver had never heard and already forgotten. All that mattered to him was that the worst-case scenario of engaging this meta was manageable: Bellamy would flee by time-jump and trigger Felicity's alarm again, either ten days in the past or ten days in the future.

Speeding toward the North District on his bike in the pouring rain, Oliver dared to admit to himself that he needed this. He needed to be out here, on his own, finally feeling like he knew what he was doing, because he was winging it in every other aspect of his life.

The day Oliver Queen was officially elected as mayor, he had been ecstatic, proud, hopeful. Since then, reality had caught up with him. In real life 'meaning well doesn't equal doing well'. That was a direct quote by Beth Brinley, political journalist writing for Star City Chronicle.

Unlike Susan Williams, Beth Brinley kept a professional distance when writing about 'Mayor Handsome'. She didn't use shortcuts but went the official way, asking for statements from the PR department or coming to press conferences, confronting him with her stories in advance, giving him the chance to add a statement. All her articles were well-researched, well-written, and—sadly—true.

It was true that Thea Queen wasn't any more qualified for her job than he was. It was true that she was his sister and that making her Chief of Staff was nepotism. As was making Quentin Lance—seasoned in law enforcement but retreating to the bottle to deal with grief—his Deputy Mayor. It was true that most voters' hope that rookie-mayor Oliver Queen would be surrounded and guided by people experienced in local politics, as he had been during his time as interim-mayor, has been shattered. It was true that he spent his time looking into the work of the DA, being present during interrogations down at the police station although that had nothing to do with actually leading this city. (Beth Brinley questioning his priorities and what, exactly, he thought he could contribute to the work of the DA had left Thea scrambling for an answer.) It was true that faking his death in a very public shootout on the steps of City Hall was an _insane_ idea (at least it was to everybody not moonlighting as a vigilante).

It was true that he wasn't a good leader of this city and was making awful decisions.

Not keeping his distance from Susan Williams was one of them. The reporter had come waving multiple red flags, misusing Thea's trust, publishing selected half-truths for maximum attention, and relying on her good looks to get what she wanted. Flirting with him was also hardly professional—but he had shamelessly flirted back, so he was hardly in any position to judge.

Oliver Queen had enough self-awareness to know that Susan Williams was Isabell Rochev 2.0. His experiences in the previous months had reaffirmed his belief that it was better not to be with anybody he could really care about. Sleeping with Susan had been another reckless act. He had known it would bite him in the ass, but he had done it anyway, because he needed to try to move on—since the woman he really cared about was doing the same.

Still, Susan using her inside knowledge to make his insecurities headline news hurt. It hurt even more than her big exclusive reveal that he had been in Moscow when he should have been stranded on Lian Yu.

Felicity was right: he never talked about his time in Russia. Now it seemed like that was a luxury he couldn't afford anymore.

His original plan for tonight had been training and strategizing how to handle Susan and her story. But when he had arrived at the Bunker, Felicity had been ready to leave and their awkward exchange about where she was heading (aka 'meeting Billy') had reminded Oliver once again of everything he had lost. He hadn't just lost a fiancée, he had lost a friend, a confident. (His desperate attempt to have Susan fill this position had been doomed right from the start.) Felicity and he had turned from friends to lovers to colleagues with a history who acted as if everything was fine, as if there wasn't a wall built of unresolved disappointment between them. Felicity was his always and Oliver knew Felicity loved him—still they both knew it was smarter to stay apart because Oliver didn't deserve her love and because Felicity was doing the smart thing to protect herself from him.

Naturally, Oliver had spent the next hours not training but sulkily sitting in Felicity's chair, thinking about the fact that Felicity hadn't used the words 'date' and 'boyfriend' and what that meant—if that meant anything.

If the alarm hadn't sounded, he would have done that the whole night until it was time to meet Thea. His sister had invited him to her place for a Christmas breakfast and quality sibling time. He never had the heart to tell her that he hated her place, because it was the apartment of his ex-girlfriend Laurel, home of bad memories and some of the biggest mistakes he had made since returning to Star City (or, as it has still been called then, Starling City). But his sister felt safe and at home there, so he'd suck it up and show up with a present and a smile tomorrow morning.

The yellow, blinking sign spelling 'Starlight Motel' ripped through the curtain of heavy rain. The weather added its own dramatic, awakening effect with a sudden bolt brightening the sky behind the building. He had been lost in depressing thoughts, summed up quite nicely by a commenter on one of Susan's recent articles: 'Oliver Queen, ladies and gentleman, human disaster.'

Angry, Oliver breaked just as thunder rumbled in the not too far distance. His bike fishtailed on the wet asphalt, water spraying behind him, but he caught it before crashing to the ground.

He took in the two-story building and the parking lot spread out in front of it: yellow doors and squared windows alternated on ground level and second floor. Each door was decorated with a black star, holding the room numbers, signaling to Oliver that his target was on the second floor, second room to the right. He knew because of the camera Felicity's security protocol had infiltrated (or something). It was positioned with a perfect view on the house and the parking lot filled with cars but void of people. Thunder rumbled again, sounding closer. Even with the pouring rain edged forward by heavy wind, the camera made the direct kicking-the-door-in-approach impossible.

Five minutes later, the Green Arrow crashed through the back window of the second room to the left, second floor. Rolling over his shoulder, he got up again, standing tall, his bow drawn, the arrow pointing at the man standing next to the front door. Simon Bellamy was a small man with a chiseled face, bright blue eyes, a nose of lost fights, neatly cut brown hair, and a steady hand aiming a gun.

Oliver knocked the weapon away by a well-aimed arrow.

Bellamy laughed, "Again with that trick."

Oliver didn't have the slightest idea what that was supposed to mean but—or maybe _and_ —it irked him. He was about to jump at Bellamy and knock him out effectively in hand-to-hand combat when something scraped at the back of his consciousness. He froze.

"I'm impressed," Bellamy complimented in a tone that made Oliver despise him. "And grateful, actually. You're earlier than I expected and I really don't want to go… _boom_." He accentuated the last word with his hands mimicking an explosion. "I also have some things to do in this timeline." He opened the door leading outside. "So, you stay here, while I go do that. You activated the motion sensor. One more step and you, this hotel, and everybody in it are history." He smirked brightly, stepping outside onto the porch connecting all rooms on the second floor. "Good look with that." Then he moved from Oliver's view.

Oliver hadn't survived Ra's al Ghul stabbing him (plus Malcolm Merlyn plus a Mirakuru Man before that) only to ultimately be blown up by this clown on Christmas Eve. The thought came and went just as quickly, because this _wasn't_ happening.

He reached for another arrow (courtesy of Ray Palmer), aimed at the packet placed on the nightstand, and released the string. The tip of the arrow popped open in the air and sprayed its contents directly onto the bomb. Rigid foam wrapped around the plastic explosive/mobile phone-combination while another arrow destroyed the motion sensor above the door. It hadn't even touched the ground when the Green Arrow burst out of the room and onto the porch, propelling himself across the railing. He landed hard on the asphalt of the parking lot, heavy drops of rain drumming on his hood. A thunderbolt missed the moment, but cracked through the sky four seconds later.

Bellamy had been heading toward the street, walking casually despite the raging thunderstorm. Now he shot around, surprised. An angry snarl curled his lips. Oliver didn't have the slightest idea how Bellamy activated his time-jumping powers, but he'd be damned if he let the meta warp away.

The rope arrow flew through the air in the next second and wrapped its bindings around the man, who was knocked backward into a puddle, arms tied to his body.

Quick and determined, Oliver headed toward the bound man, keeping his head bowed so that the hood shielded his face from watching eyes and pouring rain. A blue glow started to surround Bellamy, turning brighter, making Oliver speed up. The lying form seemed to flicker as the intensifying light gained shape and dimension.

Determined not to let this meta escape but also not daring to touch… whatever that was, Oliver sent another rope arrow on its way; this time the end of the bindings stayed in his gloved hands. Oliver pulled, trying to draw Bellamy away from… a portal? The rope connecting the two men stretched instantly, tightening as if being pulled from both sides. Oliver used his whole strength against the powerful tug dragging him toward Bellamy, but his feet slid over the asphalt toward the time… warp… tunnel… _thing_. Knowing he'd have to let go of the rope or he'd get sucked along with his opponent, he gave one last desperate pull, flexing his muscles, with a cry that was part strain, part anger.

Lightning chose that moment to strike. The bolt jumped from the sky, zigzagging down, hitting the time portal with powerful precision, brightening the scene so much that, for a moment, the whole parking lot was engulfed in blinding white light. It flashed, electricity sparked, and it burst away in all directions, rolled over adjoining streets, and carried on, bathing the North District, then the whole east side of Star City, and finally neighboring burrows in darkness. Deafening thunder followed the dark. Light and roar gone, only the sound of the rain remained, falling onto the now empty asphalt of Starlight Motel. The only reminder of the battle, the time portal, and the two adversaries was a black starburst on the asphalt, steam rising in chilling curls.

Oliver Queen was gone.


	2. Past secrurity

Girls and guys, feel hugged! I'm very happy so many of you are ready for this Christmassy endeavor. Thank you for your encouragement and positive feedback. You're amazing.

 **Albi** , come and get your extra big hug for being wonderful in every way!

Okay, after the introductory first chapter it's time to really get started. Hopefully, you'll enjoy this. Love, Jules

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 **past security**

The asphalt had turned softer. That was Oliver's first thought. His second thought acknowledged the stupidity of the first and knocked him into full awareness. He shot up, hands curled into fists, muscles flexed, knees bent, ready to defend himself against Bellamy or whomever, cursing his hood for falling back.

There was nobody to fight. Actually, there was nobody. Alone, he stood on grass (aka the soft asphalt), surrounded by trees, bushes, and stone-covered paths—all carefully placed, cut, and cared for, making it obvious that he was in a park of some kind and not the untamed wilderness. (Thank God. He'd been there, done that.)

Still, the change of scenery was worrying. He most definitely wasn't anywhere near the Starlight Motel. The moon casting its cold light from a cloudless sky intensified Oliver's worry: how long had he been unconscious? And, how was it possible that his Arrow suit was still soaked, but the grass he stood on was perfectly dry?

The memory of fighting a time-jumping meta triggered a thought he didn't dare to really consider.

Instead, he concluded that there wasn't any imminent danger. He gave up his fighting stance and picked up his bow. Feeling the familiar weight in his hand grounded him. It was time to explore the area.

He pulled up his hood, stepped onto the path, and decided to go north, because you could never go wrong with a classic. The white stones brightened by the moonlight crunched under his black boots, making a silent approach impossible. He was about to step back onto the grass when the sound drew a mental image, a memory of his teenaged self playing hide and seek with his kid sister—and the noisy paths giving Thea's hideout away every single time.

A cold shiver shot through him. _No_ , it couldn't be.

He turned and headed west along the path, jogging through an archway entwined by leaves, past empty but immaculate beds and hedges he knew formed a maze. The fountain sprayed water high into the air before splashing into a huge bowl of ornamented white marble. It was a dead giveaway, but Oliver still didn't dare to stop until the building came into view. Queen Mansion. He froze, staring. His childhood home was illuminated. The surrounding garden was impeccable. The fountain was active. None of that should be. Thea and he had moved out of Queen Mansion after their mother's death and never found anybody willing to buy it. Queen Mansion should be void and dark, the garden overgrown, the damn fountain turned off.

Multiple possible reasons for the unexpected life signs flooded his mind—none of them agreeable.

His fist tightened around his bow. Time to figure out which one of the horrible scenarios he was faced with.

He approached the massive building carefully, keeping his head low, avoiding the paths so as not to make the slightest sound. The closer he got to the mansion, the slower his steps. Finally, he stopped, hiding behind the stone balustrade separating terrace from garden. Crouching in the shadows, his eyes fixed on the floor-to-ceiling windows ahead.

Oliver had seen many things that defied logic, things that couldn't be but that just _were_. Never had he wasted his time denying facts, but right in this second he wondered if he had knocked his head too hard. Maybe this year, when lightning had struck, his near-death experience had become an actual death experience.

The thought that the Queen Christmas party was his afterlife terrified him more than death itself.

Sadly, he had experienced it often enough to question what was happening in the huge, brightly lit room. It was all too familiar: the overbearing gold, red, and green decorations, the music trio jazzing up Christmas songs, the bar built in front of the fireplace and stocked with only the finest vintages of everything, the well-dressed people (tuxes for the men, floor-length gowns for the women) standing in small groups. Champagne flutes in hand, they engaged in polite conversation, using the casual atmosphere to strike some inside deals that would start the upcoming year with proper profit.

Music, laughter, and voices dimly carried over to Oliver, but all he heard was his drumming heart—until it missed a beat, and another. Because there, right next to the ridiculously huge Christmas tree, was… his father. The man Oliver had last seen alive nine years ago with a gun pressed to his temple was in there, laughing, his hand on the shoulder of Malcolm Merlyn—and that gesture was enough to speed Oliver's heart back up.

Seeing Robert Queen laugh, his eyes shining, his cheerful spirit so present, reminded his son of the man he had called "Dad," of visited baseball games, good-natured teasing of Moira Queen, and proud introductions: "meet Oliver, my _son._ " But there was also evidence right there that Oliver's dad had been carefully crafting half-truths. The son had never known the real Robert Queen, who stood there laughing with the man he helped plan the deaths of hundreds of innocents living in The Glades.

Oliver stopped referring to his father as "Dad" years ago. He had come to accept that Robert Queen wasn't a good man—but that didn't wash all his good memories away. It didn't change the fact that Robert was Oliver's father, and it hadn't destroyed the son's love.

A swirl of emotions, good and bad alike, reduced Oliver to staring. His eyes followed every move, rediscovering familiar but forgotten gestures and mannerisms as Robert Queen went from group to group, small-talking with people until he joined a man—and Oliver knew the man Robert was taking business with: Adam Hunt, the first name the vigilante had scratched of his list. And there it stared at Oliver once more: his father's ugly face.

His stomach tightened, twisted, and Oliver decided he didn't want to spend another second watching; it was time to take action. He didn't know what exactly had happened, his best (sadly, educated) guess was that he had somehow been brought to the past—which made sense since he had confronted a time travelling meta (and he granted himself a second to loathe the fact that he was living a life where that actually _made sense_ ).

Judging from his father's looks, he believed this to be something between 2000 and 2006—whichever it was, it was years before the time traveler Oliver considered a friend gained the ability to travel through time. More importantly: it was years before he even got to know Barry Allen. Back then he also hadn't met any of the other brilliantly smart people who might be able to help him.

That thought triggered another that crashed through him like a heatwave. Felicity. Where would she be now—the _now_ he was currently in? Was she in Vegas? Or already in Boston? Oliver couldn't help but imagine Felicity as a freshman at M.I.T., studying far away from her mom, falling in love with Cooper. The last part felt like a cold shower.

Another, more dangerous thought followed: could he be a man past-Felicity loved? Could he make the woman he had seen on a photo once—with black hair, nose ring, and angry eyes—fall in love with him? With the 'him' he was now (aka 2016-him)? Or would that keep her from becoming the bright light he had fallen in love with and missed every day in his life since he hadn't listened to the advice of the time travel expert he knew? The friend who had told him that time _wanted_ to happen. So, did that mean that Felicity would fall in love with him in any case—only to always leave him? If he tried to win her over now (aka 2000-whatever), intent to learn from his past mistakes, would he make new ones? Would he fail the woman he loved unconditionally every time, in every possible scenario, no matter how many do-overs?

Suddenly Oliver hated time travel.

These thoughts fled from his mind when his father—who Oliver had been looking at without really seeing—caught his attention. It was the barest tensing of muscles, the smallest shift in Robert Queen's posture, but it triggered senses Oliver trained for nine years. And he was absolutely sure: his father felt threatened. Oliver saw Robert exchange a few more words with Adam Hunt before patting his shoulder with a small smile and getting off the bar stool. The gestures were meant to be casual—Hunt probably didn't question them. Maybe because Oliver knew his father, maybe because he knew what making a hurried exit as inconspicuously as possible felt like, he knew his father was desperate to escape. Either way, the son carefully watched his father head toward the hall in what couldn't quite be called a rush and disappear from his view.

Curiosity spiked within Oliver, chased by the urge to use this unique possibility to gain new insights into his father, to look at him with the knowledge and experience of the past nine years. He scanned the mansion. Nearly instantly, the light was switched on in the sitting room right next to the one housing the Christmas party. His parents only used it to receive official guests. The room was all stiff opulence and impersonal wealth, meant to uphold an image and intimidate at the same time. Without really thinking about it, Oliver reached for his quiver and in the next moment a listening device arrow flew across the terrace. It stayed unnoticed by the security guards crowding around the entrance, looking buff but—to Oliver's very trained eyes—not exactly competent. The arrow sank into the grey stone of Queen Mansion, right between the two windows of the sitting room.

"What are you doing here?"

Robert Queen's forceful whisper sent a cold shiver down Oliver's spine. He wasn't familiar with such harshness from his father. (Nothing Oliver had done made Robert use such a tone with him—not getting thrown out of four colleges, not taking a different girl to a different hotel every night, not buying a case of cigars that cost $1,150 each—which told long and detailed tales of Robert Queen's parenting style.)

"Robert, calm down."

The snarl Oliver remembered was lacking but he still recognized that voice immediately. It sent a different sort of cold shiver through him. He hadn't expected to ever hear that voice again and being confronted with it now (aka 2000-whatever) shook Oliver to his core. It brought horrible memories and also drove knowledge home that Oliver had done his best to suppress. Oliver knew the woman talking. He knew her _intimately_. As did his father. This time the chill running down his spine was rooted in disgust—disgust at his father, at himself, at Isabel Rochev.

"Are you out of your mind, coming here?" Robert chided, talking quietly.

Oliver looked closely at the windows, trying to get a glimpse of the people inside but failing. For a second he contemplated going closer, but he pushed the curiosity down. It was irresponsible. He couldn't get caught. If Barry Allen and his time travel fiascos had taught him anything, it was that the smallest change could have a huge impact. Plus, he loved _Back to the Future_ as a kid. Even if he didn't fear never being born, he was petrified that being spotted might give an enemy he'd bested the upper hand somehow. Maybe, being caught would change his fate and make him lose against Slade Wilson. Maybe, he wouldn't be able to save the woman he loved in a future where Isabel had already seen a hooded figure lurking around Queen Mansion.

Considering all the possible consequences, Oliver could accept not seeing them—especially since he could hear them perfectly.

"Relax," Isabel tried to pacify, "nobody would've suspected anything if you hadn't pulled me in here."

An angry huff hit Oliver's ears and then Robert's cutting voice, "You don't have any business being here. You're just an intern at my company."

A long and heavy silence followed this statement.

"We both know I'm more than just an intern." The Isabel Oliver remembered, 2014 Isabel, would have turned that sentence into a triumphant attack, delivered with a humorless smile. This Isabel (from 2005 or 2006, if he was remembering the date of Isabel's internship correctly) sounded nothing but hurt.

"I told you. It's over." Robert obviously didn't care.

"You told me we'd go away together. You told me I made you happy—happier than you've ever been."

The last part sent a stab right into Oliver's heart; he pressed his lips together.

"I have responsibilities. My company, my family. I can't just leave."

The order the father named his responsibilities in spoke volumes to the son—as did the word 'responsibilities'. It was one Oliver used frequently—not his old past self, but the man he had become since 2012—and it came with the heaviness of burden. Oliver was responsible for many things, he felt responsible for many things—things that he had done, things that other people did, things he wanted to make right and make up for and avenge. For the longest time it had kept him from doing what his heart told him: it had made him keep Felicity at arm's length without really letting her go. He'd dragged her along, or maybe dragged himself, for almost a year. It had made him keep William a secret. It made him let Malcolm Merlyn jerk him around. It had brought him pain, pressure, and a "marriage" he never wanted (even if it was only acknowledged by a dubious secret organization).

To hear that his father thought of his family, of him, like that hurt more than being stabbed in the chest. (And Oliver spoke from experience.)

"You can." Isabel said hauntingly. "I know you want to. The girl isn't even yours. You told me she wasn't."

"I'm done discussing this. I've made my decision." Another sentence that shook Oliver, achingly familiar. Robert took a deep breath before continuing in his best businessman voice. "I make sure you're well compensated. Your internshi—"

"I don't care about money." Finally, there was some of the snark Oliver remembered in Isabel's voice. "Don't you dare reduce me to your personal Monica Lewinsky!"

"You wouldn't dare!" The threat was clearly audible in Robert's voice. "Don't you dare talk to anybody about this. You know what I'm capable of."

"I—" Isabel's voice shook. "I don't understand, Robert. We're soulmates. We planned our future together. For a year you told me we—"

"I tell women many things to get what I want."

The lack of emotion in that statement made Oliver's fist tighten around his bow. Oliver hated the words leaving his father's mouth; he despised the familiarity of them, hated that he had said them, too, back when he had still been Ollie Queen (aka in the time playing out in front of him, right now). Robert might not actually mean them (Oliver honestly wasn't sure), but Ollie had been damn serious about them. It was one of the many shameful things of his past, which he tried to make up for by being a better man, by being faithful, respectful, patient, hones—

He couldn't finish that thought. He had failed being a better man earlier this year, because of his _responsibilities_. He was paying the price for his action.

Actually, he had also paid the price for Robert's actions, for him acting like he was in this moment. Oliver didn't understand how Isabel could blame Oliver, or his mother, or his sister for the end of her affair with Robert Queen. How could she, after hearing all this, after being treated this way, still call Robert Queen her 'soulmate'?

"Goodbye, Isabel," Robert said and added a warning, "Be smart about this." Oliver heard Isabel breathe heavier, but she said nothing. Instead, his father stated with finality, "I must ask you to leave my property."

A huff told Oliver that Isabel would do as she was told. A door opened.

If Isabel Rochev hadn't helped Slade Wilson try to kill everyone Oliver loved, if she hadn't helped kill Moira Queen, Oliver might actually feel bad for her.

The love he felt for his mother, the memory of the blade cutting her heart in two, made it impossible for Oliver to feel anything but hatred for Isabel. The memory of Felicity looking at him with hurt and disappointment in her eyes made it impossible for Oliver to think of Isabel with anything but regret.

That still didn't mean that Oliver admired how his father handled the situation. It brought his own claim back to him, that he hadn't grown up with the best example of a healthy relationship. Even if Oliver knew that didn't excuse anything, didn't make up for his own mistakes and mistreatment of woman.

A strange sensation rushed through Oliver, one he couldn't quite place. It reminded him of vertigo even though he was on solid ground. It vanished as quickly as it came.

A deep breath brought him back to the here and now of his past. It sounded as if Robert Queen took a moment to regain his composure before he moved. The room fell dark again and, instinctively, Oliver shifted his gaze to the sprawling driveway. Not even a minute later he saw her. Isabel walked toward her car, her head bowed, but Oliver saw enough to recognize her. And yet, he'd never met this woman: Isabel was softer in every respect. Her movements weren't as sharp, her features not as boney. She was still beautiful, with wavy brunette hair and long legs she showed off in a short, black skirt and high heels that kept sinking into the gravel of the driveway. Still, she was younger, and her youth showed in nearly every aspect.

Suddenly exhausted, Oliver ducked behind the balustrade again, resting his head back. He needed to return to his own time. Nothing good could come from him being here.

Despite the panic that he might irreversibly change the future and hurt people he loves, the desire to irreversibly change the future and save people he loves was overwhelming. His father, his mother—he could save them both. He could keep Thea from falling for Malcolm's manipulation and being hurt both body and soul. He could keep Felicity from being paralyzed, could save Sara from ever—

Sara! Why hadn't he thought of her before? Why hadn't he thought of the woman currently on board a time-ship (if 'currently' was a word that could be used with regard to time travel)? She could get him back to his own time. Sadly, he didn't have the slightest idea how to contact her. Shouldn't she notice that he was in the wrong time? Well, as far as he knew, Sara and her companions hadn't noticed Barry messing up the timeline. Maybe things like Barry creating alternate realities and Oliver visiting his past weren't important enough to alert them. Oliver didn't have the slightest idea how that worked.

But he knew he hated time travelling more and more with each passing minute. Oliver felt so helpless, so out of his element. He didn't have the slightest idea what to do and where to start.

The sound of gravel crunching under tires caught his attention. Looking over the balustrade again, he saw an orange Maserati shoot up the driveway toward the house. The driver pressed the breaks and—gravel flying up, the back fishtailing—came to a messy halt in front of the entrance.

Knowing who'd climb out of the flashy car, Oliver stared ahead in a mixture of fascination and horror until his eyes landed on a guy he thought he had left behind: Ollie Queen rose from the Maserati as if he had done anything to buy or deserve it. He pranced around it and threw the keys toward the nearest security guard, saying something. The words were inaudible, but Oliver saw the cockiness that wasn't warrantable by any real action or achievement.

Oliver knew his friends disliked his tendency to refer to himself in third person, but seeing his past-self, Oliver needed that distinction. Witnessing the rich brat without empathy, restraint, or manners, he just had to think of him as Ollie Queen, as a boy he had grown out of.

That boy reached the passenger's door of the Maserati and opened it. Getting out of a sport's car with grace was hard—Laurel Lance accomplished it effortlessly.

Grief closed Oliver's throat. The memory of his first love being stabbed with one of his own arrows was still fresh. Eight months ago, he had been there when Laurel had taken her last breath, when her life had ended much too soon, when her father's world had fallen apart. He had buried a past-lover who had turned into a good friend, a confidant, a partner in arms who he still missed and mourned. In 2016, they had gone to battle together, relying on each other, trusting each other. It was a miracle they had been able to do that, considering their shared past. With a start, he recognized that he was staring at it now. Ollie and Laurel, the it-couple made entirely of façade and false hopes, misdirection and mistakes. Seeing those two together, knowing what had happened (would happen) and the emotions stirred by that knowledge delayed the realization that they were heading in his direction.

Belatedly, Oliver moved. Keeping his head low, he retreated to the nearest group of trees, using the shadows to hide, ignoring another rush of vertigo. He didn't dare to really make a run for it, fearing the lack of cover would get him caught, terrified to mess up the future.

Instantly, he felt like a selfish asshole protecting a future (and a past) that involved Laurel getting killed by a maniac with magic powers. But chances were that the alternative timeline ended somebody else's life and Oliver didn't want to exchange one life for the other. He had enough on his conscious already.

Peeking around the trunk of a tree, he saw the couple head to the fountain, his younger self gesturing for his girlfriend to sit down.

"Ollie," Laurel asked, sinking onto the marble, "what's this?" A happy hopefulness surrounded her that Oliver remembered—even if he hadn't experienced it in the last four years. The Laurel he had met since his return hadn't been this optimistic about anything related to him.

"Christmas," Ollie answered with a smirk and pulled a tiny box out of the pocket. Holding it out to Laurel, he sat down next to her. "I saw it and it made me think of you. And I can't wait for you to have it, because you deserve it. You are so worth it—this and so much more."

Hiding behind a tree, Oliver watched as Laurel reached for the box with trembling fingers and dug his brain for this specific memory. Nothing came to him. Had he bought Laurel a ring? And given it to her on Christmas Eve? Sitting on the edge of the artfully illuminated fountain in the garden of Queen Mansion? Oliver felt like he should remember that.

A small smile tugged on the corners of Laurel's mouth as she held the box in her hands, giving herself a moment to glance at Ollie, who smirked confidently, before snapping the lid back. Her face froze. She stared at the box, unmoving, visibly collecting herself to find her voice. Finally, she did, even if it was small, "A locket."

"Yeah, you can put a picture of me in there. Or of us." Ollie, who didn't seem tripped by her reaction at all, smirked, looking honestly pleased. "It's Tiffany's. Rose gold and diamonds. Beautiful, right?"

"Yeah," Laurel swallowed, composing herself. "Very beautiful."

"I wanted you to have it tonight." He brought the back of his fingers to her cheek. "Waiting another week wasn't an option. I love treating you too much."

Laurel frowned and finally took her eyes off her boyfriend's gift, fixing him instead. "What do you mean, wait another week?"

Ollie's forehead wrinkled, too. "I mean I can't give you your present when I'm in Aspen."

"Aspen?"

"Yeah, sure. Tommy and I are leaving tomorrow." His hand finally stopped stroking her cheek. "I told you, didn't I?"

"No," Laurel's voice was getting harder, "you didn't."

"I'm sure I did."

"No!" Laurel repeated, "You _didn't._ You promised me you'd come over to have dinner with my father and my sister tomorrow. You know how long it took my dad to agree."

"Oh," sheepishly, Ollie scratched his head. "I forgot, sorry."

"You forgot?!"

Instantly, Ollie seemed annoyed, "What's the big deal? I can have dinner with your family all the time."

"It's a big deal because it's _Christmas_." Laurel got up, apparently forced to her feet by anger. "It's a big deal to me, having my boyfriend over on a _family_ holiday."

Oliver expected the exaggerated eyeroll Ollie delivered in the next moment, because he knew what a big dick he'd been. And it was 2006, because the following trip to Aspen had been very memorable, including a very public arrest on New Year's. Oliver hated that he remembered that but not this fight with Laurel. He really didn't want to be here, facing this past in the most literal sense, but he didn't have a choice. He had to relive it while another flash of vertigo crashed down on him, making him feel like the ground wasn't solid.

Even though Oliver might not remember this exact confrontation with Laurel, he remembered many talks just like it. In the year before he had been lost at sea, Laurel had constantly hinted at family, at relationships developing, at preparations for the future.

Ollie had understood Laurel's intentions but acted clueless. That had worked until Laurel stopped hinting. Once she openly addressed the next step she wanted them to take, them moving in together, Ollie had attempted to flee to China, taking her sister with him. That had been a very deliberate act to repel Laurel.

This here, this meeting by the fountain that must have seemed like a proposal to Laurel (hell, it had looked like a proposal to Oliver), hadn't been deliberate. Ollie Queen had been many things, but he had never been that cruel. Plus: he would've rather taken the bus than willingly give his girlfriend the impression he was ready for commitment, for marriage.

Suddenly, Oliver felt like the ground opened up. Reflexively his body tensed, his hand closed around his bow, but the grass was still there, flawless beneath his feet. Oliver pressed his lips together, forcing himself not to react to this strange sensation, just as his younger self drawled, "Your dad doesn't want me to come anyway."

That was true, Oliver knew—Quentin Lance had been right in his belief that Ollie Queen wasn't good enough for Laurel Lance.

"But I want you to. I want you to be there. This is important to me. Why can't you, for once, put me first?" There was hurt audible in Laurel's voice, but also demand. That, too, felt familiar to Oliver. He had forgotten it during his time away; the guilt he felt over mistreating Laurel had highlighted the good and overshadowed the bad. Hearing it brought back the memory of feeling inadequate, of not being able to live up to Laurel's standards. Oliver knew that, by this point, Ollie had given up trying.

Reliving it, Oliver didn't know how to feel. He despised his past self, the kid acting entitled and never willing to work for anything. Ollie had always expected to just get things in almost every aspect of his life.

Laurel had never handed anything over easily, and as much as Oliver could appreciate Laurel demanding the things she deserved, it still felt ambiguous to him for different reasons. One was that Ollie had never truly understood why Laurel had him made work for it. To Ollie, Laurel had been a challenge—and then she had been the trophy to parade around. It was shameful, but it was the truth. Oliver suspected that Laurel had always known Ollie felt that way; she was a smart woman after all. But she also was a woman who believed in changing a man. Ollie had never been the man Laurel wanted—but she had believed she could change him into her ideal. Back on the island and on lonely nights that had followed in different parts of the world, Oliver had told himself that Laurel saw potential in him. He told himself that he could live up to it. That prospect had given him hope—until he had returned and Laurel had squashed that hope within one minute of meeting him.

Oliver Queen had stopped lying to himself since then. He saw himself pretty clearly. He knew his flaws, his bad habits, his shortcomings. He knew that was the real route to becoming a better man. Being with Felicity had taught him that: it didn't matter if anybody else believed he had potential, if he didn't see it himself.

Oliver wanted to be a better man, not for anybody else, but for himself.

That's why he never stopped trying, not even after Felicity gave back the engagement ring. They may not have a future, but Oliver didn't like the man who had destroyed the possibility of their shared life.

And that man had already been ten times better than Ollie Queen—which was proven by his next sentence.

"I can get you a ticket, too. Come to Aspen with me and Tommy." Solving a problem by throwing money at it. Typical Ollie.

"You know I hate skiing," Laurel reminded him, annoyed.

Getting up from the fountain's edge, Oliver moved close to Laurel, twisting his body into her. "Who cares about skiing?" He brushed Laurel's dark hair away and his lips against her neck, mumbling something into her skin. In his hideout behind the tree, fighting down another rush of vertigo, Oliver couldn't make out the words but he knew their intention was to seduce and sidetrack.

That was typical Ollie, too. Confronting issues and feelings had never been his style. He had always drifted through life, evading confrontations—with the girl he dated but didn't want to marry, with his CEO-father whose footsteps he didn't want to follow (even though he didn't know where else he wanted to go), with the guys from school who he knew only cared about his wealth. Being the guy handing out money, avoiding responsibilities had been easier. That guy over there, kissing his way up his girlfriend's neck to her earlobe, needed a dose of real life. That guy over there who complained about the pizza guy not being able to break a hundred, but never even considering just giving the dude making minimal wage a hefty tip, needed to experience poverty, needed to work for things, needed to—

A sudden realization stunned Oliver: he never even considered changing the future for himself. Right here, right now, Oliver had the chance to tell his younger self not to get on the damn boat, but that wasn't an option. Oliver had lived through pain and suffering. He'd been through hell and returned with sins he'd spend the rest of his life atoning for, but he's made his peace with that. Many people died because of him, because he took their lives himself or because they had died when his past came to haunt him. But he had also saved people. This May he had stopped Damian Darkh and his plan to annihilate earth's population (short of a chosen few). He had stopped Malcom Merlyn and at least disabled one of his earthquake devices with the help of his friends.

Those friends were another reason why he wouldn't change his past or Ollie's future: John Diggle was the best friend he ever had. He was his brother. A timeline without his friendship was unfathomable. And there was Felicity, Oliver's always, _always_. Meeting her, getting to know her, experiencing her trust, having her love was worth suffering any torture. His relationship with Felicity had ended but he would forever treasure those shared months and nothing would ever take that from him.

"No!" Laurel's defiant snap ripped Oliver out of his thoughts. She freed herself from Ollie, stepping out of his embrace. "Go, ski in Aspen. I don't care. I'm going home." She turned around and walked back toward the driveway with angry steps. The questions how she'd get home when Ollie drove her here and why he couldn't remember any of this vanished from Oliver's mind as a 'crack' sounded from behind. ' _The listening arrow_ ,' Oliver remembered. Thanks to Cisco Ramon those self-destructed after being inactive for five minutes.

Just as Oliver wondered if that mini-explosion helped protect or change the future, the ground seemed to disappear beneath his feet once more. This time it stayed gone.

Oliver felt like he was falling, then like he was crashing to the ground from a huge height, just before darkness swallowed him whole.


	3. Present but hidden

You wonderful people, I wish you all a Merry Christmas and happy holidays [or if you don't celebrate just a great weekend] filled with love, joy, good people, and good food.

To the people who took the time to comment: thank you very, very much. I love every message you sent my way!

Albiona [my unicorn of amazingness] thinks this chapter involves some things that need to be said. I agree and hope you do, too. Love, Jules

* * *

 **present, but hidden**

Oliver came to with a 'plop.'

The sound startled him into awareness—and it said a lot about him that he instantly recognized it as a wine bottle being uncorked. Not the most threatening sound. Still, hearing it, Oliver's eyes snapped open and he scrambled to his feet. He felt dizzy and disorientated but his grip on his bow remained tight. His heart beating heavily in his chest, he tried to get his bearings, shake the fog numbing his senses, and assess the current threat level. First and foremost, that meant figuring out where the hell he was and what the best strategy was to—

"There! Never let it be said that Smoak woman can't compromise: your white and my red makes… rosé!"

Felicity.

Hearing the voice chased all strategic thinking away. Felicity, sounding forcedly chipper.

"After the day I've had I don't care what color the wine is as long as it's alcoholic."

And Donna, sounding tired.

Wine was poured, and the casual familiarity of the atmosphere gave Oliver a proverbial slap in the face. Finally, his brain seemed ready to do some work and his muscles relaxed.

He was home.

No, he realized, instantly tense again, this wasn't his home anymore, it was Felicity's. He had left the loft when she had left him. Living here, in the place that had been theirs with the memories of better times all around had been, and still _was_ , unfathomable to Oliver. Moving into the Bunker felt natural. The backroom with the small cot was hardly homey, but he couldn't make home without Felicity anywhere, so he hadn't even bothered trying.

Oliver didn't have any idea how Felicity could live in these once shared walls. Honestly, the fact that she could hurt. As did the idea that she now shared their bedroom with her new boyfriend. But Oliver couldn't blame her for moving on, moving away from him, since she had made it perfectly clear for months that they were done for good. Still, standing in the hall of the upper floor, the bedroom to his right, the bathroom to his left, the thought of Detective Billy Malone sleeping in his bed (he didn't dare to follow that thought any further) sent a stab into his heart.

Ignoring the pain—like he always did—he slowly, soundlessly moved toward the steps leading downstairs. It was dark upstairs, only the flickering light of the fireplace brought slight illumination. Still, Oliver made sure to stay in the shadows beyond the firelight, keeping his back to the wall, twisting is neck to look down on the main floor. Oliver didn't doubt that he had time-jumped again. A swish of vertigo going through him cemented that belief and he looked around the room below. He knew _where_ he was, but now he needed to figure out _when_ he was. Maybe, this was a time when he and Felicity had still been together, still been engaged.

Instantly, he was sure that he had ended up in a time post break-up. The missing pictures of them were a dead giveaway.

Donna and Felicity stood on opposite sides of the kitchen counter, delicate wine glasses filled with light pink liquid in hand. Felicity raised hers, "To being an awful person."

Her mother mimicked the gesture, "To being selfish."

They clicked glasses and Oliver frowned. Maybe he had somehow changed the course of time because he knew those two women and they were neither awful nor selfish.

They were, however, overly dramatic from time of time (the mother much more than the daughter).

Felicity helped herself to a hefty sip while Donna froze as the glass touched her lips. She set it down again, "Having wine to deal with the man you love being an alcoholic feels ambiguous."

Felicity swallowed audibly. "I broke a good man's heart. On Christmas Eve. I need wine to come to terms with how much I suck."

"Well," Donna reasoned. "We're Jewish."

"But Billy isn't. So, no bonus points. This remains a Christmas break-up and I'm reigning mayor of Sucksville."

Oliver's heart stopped. Could this be his present? Could Felicity have broken up with her boyfriend after leaving the Bunker? How he wished for that Christmas miracle; how he wished for it to happen in 2016. But he wasn't sure. Maybe, this was next year's Christmas. Or the year after that.

Donna cut into Oliver's whirring thoughts. "If it bothers you so much, why didn't you wait till after the holidays?"

"Because he told me about his parents visiting and that Christmas is a time to be with family. He asked me to come over tomorrow and I said the first thing that came to my mind—which was 'no'. A loud 'no' making other people look at us." Felicity sighed. "There was no saving that."

"Oh, good!" Donna sounded relieved.

Felicity stared at her. " _Good_?"

"Yes, _good_. You never introduced him to me. It's good to know that it was about him and not about me."

"No, Mom. It wasn't about you. Not at all."

"Was it about Oliver?"

"Mo-hoom," Felicity whined and turned around to head toward the couch in front of the flickering fireplace.

From his hideout Oliver had a perfect view as she plopped down onto the soft cushions, nearly spilling some of her wine. Even as a wave of vertigo hit him, Oliver's eyes remained firmly set on Felicity, the flames of the fire casting a golden glow on her beautiful—but so very tired—face. It had been months since he had dared to look at her like that, to really take her in. It had been months since he had dared to hope that anything he did had an impact on Felicity's actions. But hiding in the shadows of his former home, he couldn't help it. Donna's suggestion reignited a fire of hope that had been merely smoldering for months. He should have extinguished it this previous summer, but he hasn't had it in him. He'd never give up hope on Felicity.

That eternal hopefulness was proven by the one thought echoing through Oliver's mind: _she didn't say no_.

The realization that he _wanted_ to be the reason Felicity had broken another man's heart wasn't all that shocking; Oliver had enough self-awareness to know that he was okay with being selfish about this. What really stunned him was a sudden awareness of what he was doing. He was eavesdropping. He was listening to a very private conversation between mother and daughter and nothing they said was for him to hear.

He had no business being here. He should get out and find out if this really was his present. Sadly, Oliver knew that the only way to leave the upper floor was through windows that didn't open. Crashing through a window wasn't exactly inconspicuous. The alternative was the front door or the balcony door, neither of which could be reached without the women downstairs seeing him.

If this was the future—was it okay if he interacted with them? Oliver wasn't sure but didn't come to a definite conclusion as Donna caught his attention.

"What?" The older blonde's platform heels clicked on the stone floor as she followed her daughter, wine glass in hand despite her previous ambiguity. "I think it's a fair question."

"You know that Oliver and I are over."

"Do I?" Donna did a showy shake of her head, feigning surprise, blond locks flowing around her face. "Are you?"

Sighing, Felicity threw her head back against the cushion. Donna set her glass down on the coffee table and sank down next to her daughter, placing her hand on Felicity's leg. "I'm sorry, honey, but we never really talked about it."

"Because I'm a pistachio."

Oliver frowned in his hideout (because, _what?_ ) but Donna nodded enthusiastically, stating, "Exactly!"

"Why do we have to talk about this now? When I just broke up with my boyfriend. Who's _not_ Oliver."

"Because we both know that Billy was a rebound." Donna made a placatory gesture. "Which is only natural; you jumped from one very serious relationship to another." She sighed and scooted even closer to her daughter. Her voice turned softer than Oliver had ever heard it, continuing, "You never gave yourself time to deal with the breakup."

"Thank you for not S-P-E-L-L-I-N-G that out," Felicity cut in and Oliver knew she was deflecting. He had experienced her using sarcastic humor to sidetrack uncomfortable topics often enough (even if he didn't grasp the sarcasm or the humor of this). It was typical Felicity—even though he had to admit that she had mostly stopped using that tactic with him while they were a couple. Once they had made it official—and returned to Star City—she had been honest with him and had stopped evading her emotions. That thought sent a pang through him; the same couldn't be said about him.

"You're welcome. And now let's talk about the breakup."

"Okay. So, where to start? We were at Echo One, you know that new trendy restaurant. I don't know how Billy managed to get a table; it's really—"

"Felicity!" Annoyance flared in Donna's voice. "I mean the breakup that really matters." She collected herself and continued, quieter, "Since we… reconnected, you started telling me things. You trusted me with your green secret. Why don't you trust me with this?"

Shock raced through Oliver (as well as another swish of vertigo as the ground seemed to shake beneath him). He hadn't known that Felicity told her mother about working with the Green Arrow. Hurt followed the shock—the glimpse at how much Felicity wasn't telling him anymore pained him.

"I trust you," Felicity assured her, "I just don't want to get into it now. Why are you being so pushy?"

"Because you can't move on like this, Felicity."

"I am moving on. I had a new boyfriend."

"You're living in the loft you shared with Oliver. How's that moving on?"

"You can move on while staying where you are."

"Not if you're surrounded by memories. I know, Felicity, because we lived in the same apartment after your father left. I mean, I really wanted to get out of there but I couldn't afford moving. So, believe me, I know what it's like to be reminded of better times everywhere you look. I kno—"

"FINE." Felicity slammed her glass onto the table so hard it was a miracle nothing broke. She jumped up, making Oliver flinch in his hideout. "I'm not over Oliver. I live here because this was my happy place. Living here with him, I was happier than I've ever been and I know I'll never feel like that again. I feel safe here and I want to keep a little bit of that. So! There!"

The silence that followed rang in Oliver's ears. His heart ached. Suddenly, Felicity living in their once-shared home felt so different, much braver of her and less painful for him. Beyond that he didn't know what to think, how to feel. Felicity calling the loft her happy place was uplifting, but knowing how miserable she was—much more than he had believed her to be—felt crushing. All he wanted for her was to be happy, and he had believed she was. If not happy, she should at least be content with the decision she's made. Finding out that she was neither made him feel like an even bigger jerk than before.

And here he was, lurking, invading her privacy. He needed to get out, to stop listening to Felicity's confessions, which he knew she didn't want him to know about. Still, he couldn't move a muscle; he was frozen into place, his neck strained to see the scene unfold below.

"Felicity," Donna whispered. Still sitting, she looked up at her daughter. "You can be happy without Oliver. You are not defined by a man, by any man."

"He changed my life in ways I can't explain to you. I changed since I met him and I like who I've become. I don't know who I am on my own—and I know that's hardly in line with my feminist beliefs, but I can't help it." Felicity sounded angry and broken-hearted at the same time, and Oliver's fist closed around his bow so tightly he wouldn't be overly surprised if it snapped in half.

"Honey, it's natural to feel that way. It's okay. You were engaged, you had a plan for your future and suddenly the life you imagined wasn't possible anymore."

"The engagement was a mistake." Felicity's words and the calm way she said them knocked all the air out of Oliver. He was so shocked that the ground opening, then reclosing, beneath his feet didn't really faze him. Nothing could be as bad as what the woman he loved had just said.

"You don't mean that," Donna dismissed with a wave.

"I do," her daughter assured. "Oliver wasn't ready. I forced him to propose. There was a reason why he hid the ring, why he hadn't popped the question yet. I practically said yes to him before he even asked. I didn't give him any choice."

"Felicity, I admit that I don't know Oliver all that well, but I don't think it's easy to get him to do anything he doesn't want to do."

"He pinned the junk on the hunk, Mom. And he really didn't want to do that."

"He humored me—you both were good sports at that party. I'm talking about stuff that matters." Donna dug her brain. "Think about how long it took him to visit you in the hospital." Oliver kept from groaning, but he'd never stop regretting how he had handled that. "Honey," Donna said compassionately. "I know what it's like to dissect every decision and overanalyze things. I was where you are after your father left. Asking him to leave was a decision my brain made, not my heart. But it was the right one—for me it was."

"But you think, it isn't for me?"

"I honestly don't know. But I know that Oliver's still a huge part of your life and you can't move on like that."

As if all strength left her, Felicity sank back down on the couch, "I know. But… it's complicated."

"No, it's not. If you're serious about the breakup, you need to distance yourself from him."

"I tried. Didn't work."

"I know, your friend passed—believe me I know the impact of Laurel's death." Donna sighed, her shoulders sagged a little, and a sad little smile showed on her face. "Felicity, you need to figure out how to go on without him. I mean, it was your decision to leave him." Donna hesitated, tilted her head to the side, and asked, carefully, "Do you want to tell me why you broke up with him?"

"Because he kept something from me."

"What?"

"That's not my secret to tell. But he lied to keep it from me when other people knew." Felicity swallowed heavily. "He didn't trust me. I thought I had his trust even before I had his love."

Never in his life had Oliver hated himself more than in this moment, witnessing Felicity keep the secret of his son—a secret he had only revealed after he was forced to, even though it impacted her and their future together.

Looking back, he didn't know how he didn't tell her. He had trusted her with all his secrets; he had handed her the power to send him to jail even before he'd really known her.

She was his always and he had failed her.

After the attack orchestrated by Darkh had left her paralyzed, he had felt guilty. Felicity had told him it wasn't his fault and he had come to believe her. When it came to the end of their relationship, it had been all his doing: his decision to lie to her and to keep something important from her. She had called herself his teammate and he had answered that by deceiving her—just like he was deceiving her now by lurking.

That thought that made him move. He was down the stairs before he even realized what he was doing. When he did, he kept moving. He didn't care that he might be disrupting the future. All he cared about was coming clean to Felicity. He had heard everything she had said, he had eavesdropped, he was awful, and if that was the last push she needed to distance herself from him, he'd deal with that. But he wouldn't keep anything from her ever again. He would finally live up to the vow he had made. The wedding might've been fake but his promise to her wasn't.

A yelp from Donna told Oliver she had seen him. The shocked sound brought Felicity to her feet again. Seeing her step in front of her mother, shielding her from an unknown danger instinctively, made Oliver's heart swell. Felicity had always been brave, ready to protect those she loves—no matter the personal consequences, she'd keep them safe or die trying.

Felicity's tense muscles relaxed for a moment, recognizing him, before they flexed again, telling Oliver she wasn't exactly happy to see him here, in full Green Arrow gear, hood up, bow in hand.

"Wow," Donna stated, leaning around Felicity to see Oliver, "I have to say, you really fill out that suit nicely. With Cooper waving a gun at us and those Bee-People attacking us, I never had time to appreciate it, but…." She nodded, approving, "Very nice."

Felicity ignored her. "What are you doing here? How did you get in here? Did you crash my window?"

"I time travelled here, I think. I was transported back to 2006 and when I jumped again I woke up upstairs."

Felicity blinked at him, stunned. Donna gawked, paused, then waved a hand at him, looking at her daughter, "You have a time-travelling, _fit_ superhero in your life and you think you need your ex to define who you are? Seriously?!"

Felicity's eyes grew huge with panicked embarrassment, but Oliver kept her from actually saying (or most likely: rambling) by bringing his hand up. With one swift motion he pushed his hood back. His mask was gone in the next moment and he stood there, face bare, revealing himself and his secret identity to the mother of the woman he loved.

"Yeah," Donna stated flatly, "that makes sense."

"Oliver!" Felicity said, "Pull your hood up. Window-wall plus nosey neighbors plus secret identity can only add up to disaster. Seriously, you know Mister Deaver and his binoculars!"

It had been months since Oliver had heard that particular tone—the one that combined chiding and caring. It warmed his heart, but he couldn't follow her order because he needed her to see his face, how serious he was, "You always had my trust, Felicity. When I found out about William," he looked at Donna, adding "my son" as an explanation before continuing, "my first instinct was to tell you. But then Samantha told me I couldn't—and I gave in because I wanted to get to know him. But I also agreed because keeping it to myself meant I didn't really have to deal with it. I wasn't ready to be a father, I wasn't ready to be a parent for an seven-year-old that had grown up without knowing or needing me. I was ready to start a family—but only with you, not with Samantha. I was torn and I wanted to come to terms with it by myself. That was selfish. And I am so sorry, but… I never didn't trust _you_. I didn't trust _myself_. And there's nothing I want more than to be married to you." He shifted his weight. "I want you to know that."

The fire crackled and his eyes were locked on Felicity's which were clouded by a teary shadow. Oliver had heard her bare herself to her mother; it only felt fair to make it even and reveal himself to her like this.

Suddenly the ground seemed to shake, he wobbled as another rush of vertigo went through him.

"What?" Felicity asked, frowning at him in worried confusion.

"I think I'm about to time-jump again." He hesitated before asking, "This is 2016, right?"

"Yes…. What happened since I left you in the Bunker... four hours ago?"

"A meta triggered one of your alarms and—"

"A meta?! Oliver! What did I tell you about confronting metas all by yourself? Didn't you learn your lesson with that card-throwing guy? Why don't you ever listen?"

Oliver knew she didn't really expect an answer—not that he had a good one apart from a confession of his stubbornness—and dared to take comfort in the familiarity of the situation. He noticed that hints of a smile ticked the corners of his mouth upward, but didn't care to hide it.

"So," Felicity said, recovering, "you confronted him and… what?"

"Lightning struck us."

"Of course! Lightning—making people fast, disrupting the space-time continuum. Is there anything a decent lightning bolt can't do?"

"Seriously?" Donna asked, looking from Felicity to Oliver and back, "you're going to ignore everything Oliver's just said? About his son and trusting you and wanting to be married to you?"

Ignoring her mother, Felicity asked, "You were in 2006?"

Donna sighed, "Apparently so."

"I was," Oliver answered Felicity, "but I really tried not change anything." He hesitated, "We beat Slade, right? Isabel's dead?"

"Yeah, we did. She's dead." Felicity frowned. "Why?"

The feeling of the ground opening beneath his feet kept Oliver from answering, "I'd tell you, but I don't think I have enough time."

"Okay, I'll call the cavalry. Barry should be here in a flash. … Wow, I always avoided that obvious pun. Desperate times. Anyway, I'll get him. And Cisco. I feel like Caitlin will probably ask for a blood sample, she always does, but I don't have a syringe…."

Not hesitating, Oliver reached for one of his arrows and sliced his finger. Donna's face twisted in disgust, eyes on the flowing blood, but Felicity stared at him blankly as he handed her the arrow with the blood-covered tip.

"You're such a—", Felicity started, but cut off mid word.

Donna jumped up with a soft gasp. "Is a blue glow normal with time travel?"

Oliver didn't hear Felicity's answer as the ground vanished beneath his feet and stayed gone. His last thought was that no matter when he'd end up at least he left his present being honest with Felicity.


	4. For future reference

I'm sorry for dragging Christmas on, but since this chapter is basically lacking any hints of Christmas spirit, I hope it'll be fine. ;) A huge thank you to everybody who took the time to review. You are amazing.

Talking about amazing: while approving this chapter, **Albi** proved she's always one step ahead of Oliver. I'm not surprised, of course. ;)

Okay, happy reading and I hope to see you all happy and healthy in 2017 to wrap this up. Love, Jules

* * *

 **For future reference**

Danger.

It was more an overwhelming feeling than a conscious thought, tripping well-trained reflexes and ripping Oliver back to consciousness. He didn't get past opening his eyes, though. The arrow pointed at his face kept him from moving—as did the fact that the man aiming looked like him.

Lying flat on his back, Oliver stared up at another version of himself—slightly older with hints of grey in his hair, more defined lines around his eyes, and (it somehow pained Oliver to admit) more buff. But it was still most definitely him. He didn't dare to move. He was younger and most likely more agile. But the other guy was more experienced, had home field advantage (even though Oliver recognized the underground hideout he had popped up in), and probably knew some tricks Oliver had yet to learn. Oliver didn't know if he wanted to solve the old riddle of youth vs. experience in a battle against—

 _God_ , he realized, his first instinct was to fight himself. He could practically see Felicity, rolling her eyes at him for _literally_ being ready to beat himself up.

Deciding against aggression as his opening strategy, Oliver slowly and carefully lifted his hands, letting go of the bow and the mask. It was a gesture of peace and surrender, but the other Oliver didn't react to it at all. He stayed rooted in place, his eyes snapping to Oliver's left hand and the index finger, still oozing blood. His eyes narrowed the tiniest bit, suspicious.

Aggression leaked from his opponent. Oliver knew that he could be a scary guy, but the man above him was all aggravation and attack. Oliver couldn't even fault him; somebody had just popped up in the middle of his secret hideout, looking like him—that had to trigger some metaphorical alarms. Oliver tried to decide which tactic would pacify himself because, apparently, waiting for the other one to speak first was a little bit of a standoff.

The older man beat him to it. "How did you get in here?" The angry bark felt familiar. Being at the receiving end, on the other hand, wasn't. It was a new experience—and not exactly the most pleasant one.

Knowing himself, Oliver just chose to answer, "I time travelled. I'm from 2016." And feeling like he deserved some information in return, he added, "What year is this?""

"I never time travelled." The other man sounded even harsher, angrier. "Why did you come here?"

"I didn't choose to." Annoyance flared in Oliver's voice. "I had a run-in with a meta and now I'm being pulled to different moments in time… I think. Felicity and the others are working on that."

The man behind the bow stilled completely, before his muscles tightened once more. "I don't remember that. I think I would remember time travelling." His eyes snapped to the bleeding finger again, obviously running through possibilities—which those were, Oliver didn't have the slightest idea.

"Fine," Oliver snapped, "ask me something. Make sure I'm really you from the past."

A moment of silence followed, then, "How many stones?"

He didn't hesitate. "Seventy-seven." The number was burned into his brain. Forever. He had buried his father under seventy-seven big stones. He had heaved them up the ledge and piled them up to protect his father's body from hungry birds. There was no forgetting that.

Reluctantly, the bow was lowered. The older man stepped back, once and a second time. Getting the gesture, Oliver moved off the floor, daring to leave his bow and mask on the ground next to his feet (he knew he could ready the bow in an instant anyway). The familiar feeling of vertigo went through him. "What year is this?" Oliver asked again.

"2026."

Slowly, Oliver nodded. That made sense—in that nonsensical way of time travel.

He hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to do next. Finally, he gestured to the man opposite him. "Nice suit," he complimented, meaning it. The green was so dark, it was only a technicality away from black. It didn't look like leather, but wasn't Kevlar either. The strategically placed plating added protection and didn't seem to restrict movement at all. The suit looked like it had seen quite a few battles, which gave it character, told tales of survived fights, and added a menacing quality that Oliver—who always made sure his suit was impeccable—had never considered.

The Nearly-Black Arrow accepted the compliment with a nod and looked Oliver's appearance over. "2016," he finally stated, thoughtfully. "I remember Tobias Temple."

"Church," Oliver corrected.

"Yeah, right. But he wasn't a real problem. Not like…."

"Prometheus."

"Then you're done with Dorian Darkh?"

"Damian," Oliver said automatically before doing a mental double take. Right. Darkh! That whole drama felt like it should count as a different year. The memory of the first half of 2016 heightened the annoyance audible in his voice as he demanded to know, "Why are you still testing me? What do you think I am? A robot?"

"Robots don't bleed—believe me, I know."

"You do? How?"

"I can't tell you. Nothing good comes from knowing the future. Just ask Barry."

God, Oliver really, _really_ hated time travel. And he hated that he (his older _he_ ) was being so difficult. Shouldn't he be able to talk to himself?

Not feeling like saying anything else, Oliver let his gaze wander around the room—the Bunker, to be precise. Both men stood in the center of it, on top of Felicity's raised work space. Everything looked just like Oliver remembered it. The biometric cases for the suits spread out to his right, the conference table was right ahead, visible behind the big screen Felicity had insisted on when setting up the layout. The three flatscreens she had deemed necessary minimum were positioned to his right. It felt comforting in its familiarity—until it really hit him: everything looked _exactly_ the same. Shouldn't technological progress call at least for _some_ changes? What had happened that Felicity used hardware that was eleven years old? Oliver felt like his blood froze in his veins. The answer to that ques—

"How does this time travelling business work? Do I need to make arrangements?"

Guessing what those 'arrangements' were supposed to mean, Oliver shook his head, "Don't worry, I'll be gone soon." His mind still filled with horrible scenarios for his future, he gestured around the room, "Where is everybody?"

"It's Christmas Eve."

"And?"

"Everybody's with their families."

"Apparently not everybody." Seeing the eyebrow raised in question, Oliver explained, "You aren't with Thea."

The other man hesitated for a second before saying, "I'll see her tomorrow."

Relieved, Oliver nodded. At least Thea was fine, and he was welcome to spend Christmas with her—and maybe her family. How he wished his sister had that, a happy family life. Because he, apparently, didn't have a family to spend Christmas Eve with. Apparently, ten years had passed and nothing had changed. A wave of anger and disappointment went through Oliver, intensified by the accompanying vertigo.

"What?" The man Oliver would become glared at him. There was a hint of defensiveness around him, but it was barely traceable underneath all that open hostility.

The attitude unnerved and angered Oliver. It was familiar and foreign at the same time, scratching at bare nerves. "You're alone in the Bunker. On Christmas Eve."

"That's pretty judgmental for a guy who spent his Christmas Eve alone, too."

"I'm spending my Christmas Eve travelling through time."

"You were alone in the Bunker and don't try to deny it. I remember 2016 well."

The heated words dissolved into silence. They were both defensive, Oliver realized, both defending something they believed to be a flaw. Awkwardly, Oliver shifted his weight—and saw the other man do the same. The mirrored gesture caught both of them by surprise. They stiffened, staring at each other.

"Damn it, you're really me." The other guy looked truly annoyed, but the tension left his body. Oliver noticed how the grip on his bow changed; he was no longer ready to strike at any second.

Oliver didn't feel like commenting and simply gestured to his own bow and mask, "I'm going to pick that up. I want to have it on me when I jump again."

His older self nodded consent and moved to sit on the desk next to Felicity's (state of the art in 2016, but so very dated in 2026) screens. He watched Oliver closely as he put the mask back on, only to finally break the silence, saying, "So. 2016. Crappy year."

Was he really that bad with small talk—or has he gotten worse? Oliver didn't feel like reacting to the obvious, so instead he asked, "Will it get better?"

"Not really."

Great. Something to look forward to. Aggravated, Oliver sucked air in, only to then press his lips together. He didn't really know what he had expected, hoped for, but all of this was really sobering. Suddenly, Oliver was fed up with this bleak, dark future, which might include his worst nightmare coming true. Annoyed, he fixed the man he'd apparently turn into. "Didn't John ask you to come over or something? Do you have to spend Christmas Eve here?"

"I want to spend it here."

"Why?"

"You'll understand soon enough."

"Is Felicity dead?" There it was, the question scratching at his conscious since he noticed the old hardware. The possibility of it tore at his heart and the fear that his future was this _dark_ made his knees go weak (as did the feeling of the ground vanishing beneath his feet, but he had experienced that often enough tonight to handle it quite well). As much as Oliver didn't want to know, he couldn't not ask.

His eyes were glued to the man opposite him. Oliver noticed the stiffening of each muscle, saw tension grow and dissolve into something that looked like compassion. Nothing of that gave Oliver hope he'd like the future he'd jumped to.

A struggle was going on in his older self, but, ultimately, he came to a conclusion. "No," he said, his voice strangely soft, "she's alive."

"But she's not here."

"As I said," the harshness returned instantly, "she's with her family."

"…that doesn't include you." Oliver heard the accusation and disappointment in his own voice but couldn't help it.

The other man's defenses shot up. "That's pretty judgmental, coming from you. Or do you come from a 2016 where you didn't lie about William?" He paused for effect before sending a glare that screamed ' _There!_ '

Heat flashed through Oliver. Did that mean all the damage has been done already? Was that lie—out of all the lies he had told—the one to define his future? A desperate anger made his lips move, "You should've fought for her!"

"Oh?! Like you fought for her? Because I don't remember that happening. I remember you giving her space."

"You know Felicity! She needs space or she'll push you away anyway." Again, the other man gave Oliver a look showing he had made his point. That did nothing to calm Oliver. He clenched his fists, loathing the sudden feeling of helplessness. "No," he objected, rejecting this future, "there has to be some way to fix it."

Oliver stared at the man opposite him who tried to look unaffected, but Oliver saw his hands clench around the desktop.

"I forgot how hung-up I was about that," 2026-Oliver said, then dismissed him with, "It'll pass."

The aloofness was a bad act, and obvious. Was he really this transparent? The question caught him by surprise and angered him at the same time. Oliver has always been aware of the hefty portion of self-hatred he carried around, but it felt like the load was getting heavier. This wasn't like looking into a mirror, that comparison didn't even come close. Looking at the man he would become, he saw all his unfavorable traits clearly. Oliver didn't know if the years intensified them, but he knew he didn't like that man opposite him very much.

"I don't want it to pass", Oliver snapped, unable to stop himself. "Not if this is the alternative! Sitting in this cave, waiting to die. Life's too pre—" The words died on his tongue. Their echo rang in his ears, clenching his heart, bringing him back one and a half years (or eleven and a half, whatever) and into a different underground lair. Felicity had told him she wanted more out of life. Back then he had wanted that, too. He had wanted _her_ to have a better life than he could offer her. But now he wanted even more: he wanted something better for himself, too. He wanted to have a life _with her_.

"You can't have that," the other man said, proving he knew where Oliver's thoughts were. "You're better off alone. You carry too many burdens around. You've made too many enemies. It's never easy or safe where you are."

"That's not true," Oliver objected loudly. "I had that. Felicity and I did. We were—"

"What?" he cut in and added a mocking, "Perfect?!" He shook his head, visibly growing angrier. "You weren't even together for a year. You're blowing this whole thing out of proportion. Forget it, it doesn't matter."

Oliver stared at the other Arrow, dumbfounded. He had to be kidding him. "Of course, it matters!" he barked at himself, "They were perfect months! Happy months!"

"You're fooling yourself because she made you happy and better. But you never did the same for her. You were never perfect for her."

"That's not true!"

"No?!" The older man asked, the anger Oliver had seen underneath the surface of forced calm at last vibrating in his voice. He pushed himself off the desk and headed toward Oliver. "Then what was so perfect? Bali?! That was a _bubble_. Just like Ivy Town. Nothing about that even remotely related to your real life. You weren't yourself there—that's why _you_ were happy. Felicity wasn't. How could you even think about bringing her to the suburbs? She wasted her potential and skills in a place with laggy wifi and tattling housewives!"

Oliver felt the ground disappear beneath his feet—literally and metaphorically. Vertigo went through him, but right now it didn't matter. He couldn't believe his ears, couldn't believe the other guy was actually throwing those things in his face. He resented the words. He gasped, consternation filling him, but before he could say anything, the other one continued, still angry.

"And what was perfect about keeping William from her? About proposing with that huge black spot between you? We both know you went into that lie without an exit strategy, just hoping to keep it going as long as possible. So, minus all that it leaves roughly two months after you returned to Star City. That was the only time Felicity and you were really on the same page and trying. Two months. So don't blow this whole thing out of proportion."

The words knocked the air out of Oliver. Motionless, he stood, swallowing heavily and avoiding eye-contact—with _himself_ of all people. If there was one person he should be able to be honest with, it should be himself. But the emotional turmoil raging inside him made Oliver feel awfully vulnerable, and he never liked others witnessing his weakness. He felt caught and chided and _hurt_ and strangely helpless. Goosebumps of dread burst over his arm as he contemplated the other man's words. They shone a new, a very unflattering light on his relationship with Felicity, casting a shadow of negativity at the same time. Never had he looked at things from that perspective, dissected those months like that, never—

His eyes snapped back to the man opposite him as realization hit. "For somebody who claims it doesn't matter, you sure spent a lot of time thinking about it." Now the other guy felt caught; it was obvious, as was the meaning behind it. Oliver straightened his back, "You made a mistake, not fighting for her."

"NO!" The objection burst from the older man's lips. "She's better off with Grant in Coast City."

"What?" Oliver breathed, taken aback. Felicity had moved away, put 1,000 miles between them? That distance made things feel even more definite, more horrible. She wasn't even in his life anymore.

Other Oliver pressed his lips together, annoyed. Shifting his weight, he regained his composure. "You end up ten years in the future and that's all you want to talk about? You should use the opportunity to gain strategic advantage on the battles ahead."

He was changing the subject. "I thought nothing good comes from knowing the future."

An eye-roll was the only answer. The gesture seemed out of character, too casual. The older man inhaled soundly and stretched his back, his eyes danced across the room before they settled back on Oliver, "Didn't you say you wouldn't stay long?"

As if on cue, vertigo made Oliver wobble on his feet. "Don't worry, I'll be gone soon." Before, Oliver had dreaded another jump and where it might take him. Standing in his own hideout, facing himself, he couldn't wait to get away. An emotional storm was raging inside him, his head swirling with everything he had heard in the last minutes, his heart heavy.

A deep sigh made him take his eyes off the floor. Oliver watched the man he never wanted to become open the drawer of a rolling cabinet and take a bottle out. Wordlessly, he poured two glasses and held one out to Oliver. The younger man hesitated, unsure he wanted this peace offering, wanted to make peace with himself and this… _everything_ —but then he took the glass and raised it in a silent salute. The other Oliver mimicked the gesture. They both drank, emptying their glasses in one go.

Just as Oliver swallowed, another wave of vertigo hit and he knew it was the one. The ground vanished beneath his feet and the last thing he heard before blackness took over was his own voice, "For what it's worth, I never time travelled." Unconsciousness wrapped around him.


	5. Scrooge you, Charles Dickens

I know 2017 isn't exactly brand-new, but I still want to wish you a very happy new year and only the best for the upcoming months.

Thank you very much for reading, for caring, for taking the time to send me feedback, for your patience, and for clinging to your Christmas spirit. At least I hope you do, because this is the final and most Christmassy chapter. It also involves spoilers for _The Flash_ 's winter finale – just so you know and proceed with adequate caution. ; ) I hope you like it nevertheless.

 **Albi** , I've said it before; I'll say it over and over again: you are amazing and I can't thank you enough.

Happy reading. Love, Jules.

* * *

 **Scrooge you, Charles Dickens**

Heavy raindrops bursting on Oliver's forehead startled him awake. His eyes snapped open, but only the darkness of the night welcomed him, chased away for an instant by a crackling thunderbolt. As thunder rumbled around him, he fought to get off the wet ground, limbs heavy, mind slow. Shaking the fog of unconsciousness and snapping into alertness was harder than before, making Oliver wonder if he had jumped more than ten years. He felt groggy and disorientated and the heavily pouring rain didn't make it any easier.

Jerking his head, he tried to clear his mind. The grip on his bow tight, he blinked against the rain and finally realized he was in Star City's Central Park. His latest time jump had dumped him right next to the big Christmas tree. Earlier this month, its ceremonial lighting had been his bittersweet, mayoral duty, reminiscent of a more hopeful moment. Right now, the tree was nothing but a darker silhouette in the darkness of the park. The Christmas lights wrapped around it were dark, just like the lamps next to the path.

Oliver looked around. He was alone—which wasn't surprising, considering the raging thunderstorm. Was it possible that he had returned to 2016 and the horrible weather of Christmas Eve? But why were all lights off?

The question had just entered his mind when a red light flashed. A blast hit his face, stretching his hood around him, and the familiarity of it kept him from taking a defensive position.

"Welcome back." Barry Allen sent Oliver a half-smile and moved next to him, putting his hand on his friend's neck.

Oliver hardly had time to close his eyes and brace himself for what he knew was coming.

In the next millisecond, he felt like a heavy weight was pressing down on his chest forcing all air out of his lungs. His feet dangled uselessly behind him, his hand fisted his bow, his arrows rattled in the quiver on his back, his stomach started to revolt. Seconds later, his feet touched solid ground and he could breathe again. He inhaled deeply, filled his lungs to calm his nerves and stomach.

He would never get used to, let alone enjoy, the sensation of speeding with Barry.

Still trying to regain his composure, Oliver opened his eyes to the familiar view of the Bunker. He felt as if he had only been here minutes ago, confronting himself. Luckily, this time he was greeted by another, much more friendly sight: his friends, looking just like he remembered them. He barely had time to register everybody present (Felicity, Thea, John, Donna, Barry, Caitlin, and Cisco) and that only the emergency lighting (basically, Felicity's computers) was on before Caitlin Snow moved to him. With an accusatory smile, she lifted an injection pen to his neck. "This might sting a little," she warned and pressed the needle into his skin.

It stung a _lot_. Oliver pressed his lips together, scrunching up his face, only granting himself a hiss.

"That should establish synchronicity of your molecules with our space-time and link you in the present."

Oliver nodded. It was a gesture of acceptation and gratitude. Scientifically, the words didn't mean anything to him, but he understood that his friends had worked hard to find a solution for his problem. They had used their combined expertise to help him, had invested their time on Christmas Eve to save him. He trusted their skills and their… whatever they had injected into his system, even if he couldn't even begin to fathom how any of this worked. It felt strange that one stinging injection should be the cure after everything that had happened, but Oliver had once seen flashing lights clear Barry's rage-filled mind, and that had also been science way over his head.

Meeting Caitlin's eyes as she sent him a small smile, a wordless nod suddenly didn't feel enough to Oliver. Following a sudden urge rooted in everything he had experienced in the last hours, he said, "Thank you."

Surprise showed on Caitlin's face and that told Oliver that she knew him well enough that she hadn't expected him to actually say it. Her smile turned bigger, "Of course."

"Time travel without a Delorian," Thea said, walking toward him, a smirk on her face. "Are you sure you did that right?"

"No," Oliver answered, absolutely serious. "Not sure at all."

His sister hugged him strongly and Oliver held on just as tight. He hadn't met Thea in any of the stops he had made in time and didn't know if his future self had told the truth about her being with her family on Christmas Eve, but Oliver chose to believe himself. He needed her to have a happy future. He felt unsettled by everything that had happened to him tonight, by everything happening to him in the future, by possibilities that might or might not be set in stone. Being so close to his sister, feeling her worry in the way she hugged him despite her nonchalant words, didn't exactly help to ground him.

"We'll know if it works in the next ten, fifteen minutes," Cisco said from behind Thea. "If he doesn't do the time warp by then, we should be fine." He looked at his watch. "So much for Joe's Christmas party."

A pang raced through Oliver. He had ruined everybody's Christmas Eve. They didn't want to be here in the Bunker with him; they had better things to do. And suddenly it hit Oliver that Barry was here, but his girlfriend Iris wasn't. He was about to send them all away, to go and be with their families and loved ones, when Barry smirked, "Not a problem."

Oliver expected the blast before it hit his face. A whirl of red light rushed around the room for two… eventful seconds and suddenly the Bunker was crammed with decorations. Evergreen garlands laden with ribbons and Christmas balls wrapped around the handrail of Felicity's work station, the salmon ladder, and the biometric cases housing the mannequins that now also donned Santa hats. Springs of mistletoe dangled from the ceiling and lit candles stood on nearly all flat surfaces, their flames flickering wildly in the blast reminiscent of Barry. Wearing his red Flash suit, mask up, he stood next to Oliver's desk, which usually held arrow-making equipment, now replaced with a punch bowl and mugs. Barry raised the ladle, "Eggnog?"

The question was met with stunned silence and then—collective approval. The serious and stiff atmosphere vanished instantly. Oliver saw the people around him relax, watched Caitlin turn to Felicity to compliment her dress and Donna confront Barry about the lack of a menorah. (One was added in a flash.) Thea reached for Oliver's hand, gave it a quick, supportive squeeze, and joined the others by the eggnog. Oliver watched from the sidelines, his right still holding on to his bow, his heart too heavy to go and mingle just yet.

"You okay, man?" John asked, moving to him.

Slowly, Oliver nodded, but the look on his best friend's face told him that his answer wasn't believable. He shifted his weight and admitted, "It was a weird night."

"That says a lot, coming from you." John crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you want to talk about it or do you need a minute?"

The question proved how well his partner knew him. A weak but thankful smile showed on Oliver's face and he answered by stating, "You should go be with Lyla and John, Jr. Didn't you tell me that you have to leave a Santa trail?"

"I do," John confirmed, "I'll need a flashlight, though, since a lightning bolt took out the power in nearly all of Star City." The men shared a long, loaded look until John asked, "Are you sure you're okay on your own?"

Oliver gestured across the room, "I'm not alone." Seeing the doubt in John's features and getting the unspoken hint that Oliver could be lonely in a room full of people, he said, "I'll go home with Thea—if I don't time jump."

"I'm sure you won't," his friend said, sounding sure. "I didn't really understand the science, but our three geniuses worked hard on countering the effects of Bellamy."

Hearing the name shocked Oliver. He had forgotten about the Meta! He had been too absorbed in his own drama to think of him. "Bellamy! I have to—"

"Do nothing," Barry cut in. "We locked him up a week ago. Guess how surprised we were to find you had trouble with him."

Oliver really, _really_ hated time travel. Not to mention that Bellamy being neutralized already felt weirdly anti-climatic and strangely unsatisfying. Oliver wished he could've confronted him again, locked him up himself.

The distaste must've shown on Oliver's face, since John gave his shoulder a heavy pat, "Don't even try to make sense of it; it's crazy." His eyes danced between the two other men, "If anything comes up, call me, okay?"

Oliver nodded. "Merry Christmas, John."

"Merry Christmas," John answered, gave Barry a nod, and headed over to the others for a quick goodbye.

"Here," Barry caught Oliver's attention, holding a mug out to him.

"I don't care much for eggnog."

"It's Christmas," Barry countered as if that was the only argument needed, not lowering the mug, looking at Oliver expectantly.

The two men stared at each other. Barry's gaze was a playful challenge while Oliver answered with open rejection—and it was the realization of that difference, the memory of a future Christmas Eve spent alone and lonely that made Oliver give in.

Maybe this was the first step for preventing the future he had visited from ever happening, not rejecting his friend's offer. (It also might not mean anything in the grand scheme of things, but it most definitely couldn't hurt.)

Finally, Oliver let go of his bow. Carefully, he put it onto the DNA-sequencer and took the offered eggnog to click mugs with the Speedster. (He was still in his full costume, and Oliver couldn't fault Barry for not wanting to reveal his identity to Donna.) Taking the tiniest sip confirmed Oliver's earlier claim: he didn't care much for eggnog. He swallowed and glanced around the room, finding everybody in conversation. It was an unfamiliar sight, but he really liked it. Normally people weren't this causal in the Bunker. Letting loose around here meant training without a specific opponent in mind. Thinking of it now, it made sense to Oliver that somebody not part of his inner circle initiated it. He made a silent vow to turn the gathering on Christmas into a tradition.

"Thank you," Oliver said, "that was a nice idea."

"I seemed like you all needed a little break."

Oliver huffed a confirmation. It felt like truer words had never been spoken. For a short moment both men stood next to each other, silent, looking ahead. The events of the previous hours filled Oliver's mind, knowing that it would bug him forever paired with his trust in Barry made him confess, "I went to the future." He felt his friend stiffen next to him, but continued, speaking quietly and calmly. "What I found there… wasn't exactly what I'd hoped for." He turned to face the man dressed in his red suit, "My older self told me that nothing good comes from knowing the future—and that I should just ask you."

Barry swallowed heavily. Finally he said, even quieter than Oliver, "I accidentally went to the future a few days ago. I saw…" His voice cracked and he seemed to settle for, "my worst nightmare." Another heavy second followed, then determination captured Barry. He straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and looked Oliver in the eyes as he stated, "I'll stop that from happening."

"Didn't you tell me that time wants to happen? Back when we fought Vandal Savage." (Back when Oliver started making the mistake that apparently defined his future.)

"That was the past," Barry explained. "You can't change things that have already happened. But the future isn't set yet. We have our own future in our hands." There was a certain urgency in his voice that sounded like desperate determination. "We control our own future."

Slowly, Oliver nodded. He did so in support for Barry as well as in acknowledgement of his words. Whatever Barry had seen in his future, it had shaken him to his core. Oliver could relate to that perfectly. As he could relate to the desperate need to feel like you had control over your own life. Getting a glimpse of what lay ahead of him felt life-changing and brought the need to make a choice. Oliver could either be disheartened by what he had seen, just give in and give up, or he could step up, take charge, and make some life-changing decisions.

Oliver, of course, had always been too stubborn to simply accept things.

Suddenly the echo of words he had heard even though they hadn't been spoken yet vibrated through him; a shiver followed them. "He never time travelled."

"What?" Barry frowned.

"My older self. He told me that he never time travelled." He fixed Barry. "He should remember that, right? If it happened in his past, shouldn't he… gain the memories or something?"

"I…," Barry hesitated and finally settled for, "Probably." Seeing Oliver's stare, he added a shrug, "I'm not sure, man. I always kept my memories, but it was always me changing time, so…. Probably."

After staring at his friend for another long moment, Oliver nodded. He'd take that answer, gladly, because "probably" brought a possibility along. "I might've already changed the future." His heart felt lighter. Oliver knew that he was taking a chance, but he had risked things on 'maybes' so many times before—a "probably" felt like better odds already.

"Yeah," Barry agreed and asked, compassionately, "Was it that bad?"

"It was really… dark." Saying those words, Oliver's eyes landed on Felicity, pulled to her by an invisible force. As if his glance held weight, she turned to him, meeting his eyes.

"I see."

The softness in Barry's voice gave Oliver the impression that his friend really understood—and it reminded him of something, "Where's Iris?"

The question startled Barry. "At home."

"Why didn't you bring her?"

"Well, it's your secret lair, your secret identity. And, believe me, I get that it's your decision who you want to tell. Plus," Barry smiled that smile that made him look younger than he was, "she said she wanted to start packing." He paused and added, sounding happy, "We're moving in together."

"Wow," Felicity said, joining them. Oliver had felt her approach as well as seen it. She always had her own gravitational field to Oliver. His eyes stayed glued to her. His body attuned to hers.

She looked gorgeous in a black dress, embellished with gold, and not even the knowledge that she had put it on with another man in mind could take away the effect the sight had on him. Neither could the fact that she avoided his gaze by looking at Barry. "That's quick—but I guess speeding things up fits you." She smirked, taking the sting out of her words. "And I'm hardly one to talk: Oliver and I moved in together after six weeks. But, to be fair, that whole thing had been one and a half years in the making." She flinched, the eggnog sloshing in the mug she held. Talking quicker, she continued, "But I guess you and Iris have even more history—and you already lived together for years. So, you should know what to expect." She bit her lower lip, suddenly awkward.

Oliver hadn't seen that gesture in a long time. When he had met Felicity, it had been a constant in their interactions, but it had become less and less frequent—just like her habit of stumbling over her words. Now it only happened when Felicity was nervous, when her mind was occupied by things she didn't want to address, when her emotions were raw.

Barry remained unfazed. "That's true. It really was about time." He lifted his mug. "I'll get some more eggnog."

His reaction proved that Barry knew Felicity, too. With one last smile he made his way over to the punch bowl, leaving the other two in an awkward silence. Digging his brain for a way to start the conversation and playing for time, Oliver took a sip of his eggnog. Tasting the awfully sweet and creamy drink, he shuddered.

"I know…. Turns out, Team Arrow is very anti-Nog." Felicity gestured to Thea trying and failing to inconspicuously set her mug on the conference table. "It's a Team Flash thing."

"I guess pouring it out would be impolite."

"And people say you have no manners."

The teasing was clearly audible in Felicity's voice, it also showed in the way her eyes sparkled. Oliver enjoyed seeing it, enjoyed the banter but couldn't join in. Serious, he stated, "Well, I did eavesdrop tonight." That was an awful way to start the conversation he wanted to have. He realized it as soon as the words left his lips. But now they were out in the open and all Oliver could do was power on. He met Felicity's eyes, "I apologize. At first I wanted to find out what year I had jumped into, but then…. I'm really sorry, I know nothing was meant for me to hear."

Felicity hesitated. "When did you start listening?"

"When you uncorked the wine."

"Wow."

Felicity took a huge sip of her eggnog—and made the most adorable disgusted face. Oliver kept his face even, this wasn't the right moment to smile. "I know," he agreed to everything she'd expressed with one word. "Felicity," he said softly, gaining her full attention, "your mother's right. You are not defined by a man—you are much too remarkable. I know that you referred to what we're doing here and your need to make up for things that really weren't your fault when you said you don't know who you are on your own…. But being Overwatch doesn't define you either. You are too smart and too skilled to reduce your life to what's happening in this Bunker. You told me you wanted more out of life—and I think you shouldn't lose sight of that. Even if that means starting a family with a guy named Grant in Coast City."

"What?" While listening to him, Felicity's eyes had turned soft, but now she blinked, surprised. "Who? What?"

A silent curse made Oliver press his lips together. That wasn't exactly the point he had wanted to make. Even if that information was very prominently on his mind, he was mad at himself for letting it slip. "I mean," he said, detouring, "whatever feels right for you moving forward from here, I'll deal with it." He couldn't say 'be okay with it', because he knew he wouldn't be. He had seen that he couldn't.

"Still…." Felicity said, using her talent to unerringly tug at the strand of conversation Oliver didn't want to follow, "Grant in Coast City… that feels awfully specific."

Oliver sighed, knowing he couldn't not answer without breaking his honesty vow. "I jumped to 2026, met myself, and he told me you'd moved to Coast City with a guy named Grant. He also said you were spending Christmas Eve with your family."

"Wow." Felicity visibly searched for words, then she frowned. "Coast City _is_ a very tech-friendly city. They launched a project for city-wide, free WiFi, aiming for 50 mbps—which is ambitious but doable. I heard that Kord Industries wants to open a subsidiary there and that really makes sense. If you want to start somewhere in our branch of industry, you should start there." Her eyes lit up, "Did I start that start-up I'm thinking about? Did older Oliver tell you?"

A pang raced through Oliver. Hearing her obvious excitement was disheartening. Instantly, he felt bad, selfish. It had been months she had shown excitement about anything, which was a pity because an excited Felicity was one of the best things in his life. He shook his head. "No, he didn't. He wouldn't say anything else. He only let that information slip by accident."

"Sounds like some things never change."

Feeling caught and chided, Oliver pressed his lips together, glancing at the floor. It was justified, he knew. Still, Felicity tensed next to him, her hand closed around her mug, the excitement gone in a heartbeat. An awkward silence settled over them. This time Felicity ended it, admitting, "It's weird, getting that glimpse into the future—and I didn't even time travel and meet my older self." An interested spark in her eyes, she asked, "What's Oldiver like?"

Swallowing all the dismissive things that danced on the tip of his tongue, he said, "Nothing like I ever want to become."

Slowly, Felicity nodded.

"But his suit's cool," Oliver added, feeling the need to lighten the mood.

Silence followed. _Again_. Oliver hated how stiff and searching this conversation was when Felicity and he had always been able to talk to each other. They had always known what to say to the other one—and it couldn't be any other way. Actually, it wasn't. Oliver knew perfectly what he wanted to tell Felicity. He cleared his throat, chasing a lump away. "I got a good look at my life tonight. I saw that I have to change some things; I want to change some things, do things differently—and I know I already said that last year…." He sighed, feeling like a broken record, like every step of progress he had ever made had never been permanent, always a fluke, always destroyed by falling back into single-minded patterns. All the second chances he had already been granted crashed down on him in that moment, making him doubt that he deserved yet another one.

"You already did things differently tonight." Felicity's soft voice cut into his depressed thoughts. "You didn't have to reveal yourself to my mom—or tell her about William."

"I wanted her to know. I want you to be able to talk to Donna without barriers."

"Depending on the pressure point, I don't know if my mom can keep your secret."

"Felicity, I saw your mom stand up to Cooper. I know Smoak women can handle pressure. And I'm absolutely sure: if the situation comes and she cracks, I'm okay with it."

A blush crept onto Felicity's cheeks that made her look even prettier. Now it was her trying to lift the mood. "We should still try to keep her from ever getting into such a situation."

"We will," Oliver promised, meaning it.

Felicity looked at him closely. He could practically see the thoughts piling up and running through her head. She licked her lips in that nervous habit he knew so well. "You apologized. For lying."

He frowned. Why did she feel like she had to mention that? He had apo— _No_ , he suddenly realized, a cold shiver of shock freezing him, he hadn't! He had never actually told her how sorry he was—for… everything. His voice was hoarse, talking around a lump in his throat he couldn't swallow down, "I should have apologized a long time ago. I was a bad teammate."

This time the following silence had a different quality. The positivity attached to it was proven by Felicity smiling and pointing her index finger at him. " _That_ is doing things differently."

"I don't want to fall back into old habits. I'm determined not to default to the man who was on the island alone anymore."

Biting her lip, her eyes shining, Felicity nodded. Oliver, on the other hand, stayed serious. He wasn't just quoting her words back to her, he was absolutely serious about every word he said and he needed her to know that. Her reaction gave him the impression that she did. It made Oliver suddenly feel lighter… hopeful. There it was again, right in front of him: a possibility that his future might be brighter than he dared to imagine, another second chance he didn't deserve but he wanted more than anything to finally, _finally_ make things right. To be the better, honest, loyal teammate the woman he loved deserved.

"Felicity?" His lips moved without much thought, following the hope roaming inside him, daring to do another thing differently and actively pursue what he wanted, to fight for his own future. "Would you go to dinner with me?"

Surprised, she looked at him. Then her features softened, a small smile lit up her beautiful face. "Not yet."

 **(The End)**


End file.
